It is framed

It is framed

By the window

Against a backlit moon

A dirty shadow

Ducking out of sight

Behind waste bins

Leering through the mizzle

As the last bus leaves

Laughing at footprints

In wet cement

With an illegible tag

Much like the one

Scrawled on the post box

There is a hum

A fear of confrontation

Howling in the dark

As an alley cat prowls

Stepping over broken glass

Dashed against the wall

In a drunken brawl

Before the knives flashed

Blood red snow

Blends a tinge of Rothko

To the whiteout

The Norwegian Spruce

Twinkles in the square

Dying slowly as it stands

Smaller than it once seemed

There is a smell of sweet mince

Curry and malt vinegar

An ambulance wails

Across town

A universe away

The world has gone crack mad

Some people still drink coke apparently

Hats are doffed

A faithful gathering

As carollers sing

Beneath a light

Not yet broken in fairyland

It is framed

By the window

Pretty as a picture

This Christmas.